Themes and Stories
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: Was there any truth to be found in works of fiction? Daenerys wasn't sure. And her son wasn't even asking the question.


**Themes and Stories**

The Son of the Dragon and the Wolf made his way to the top of the Tower of the Hand, where with his own, he thumped on the door thrice. No answer was given, so instead he stormed inside. Before him was a desk, a chair, and all sorts of artifacts, ranging from the far North, to lands as far as Asshai. Trophies, he supposed, was another word for them. Relics of past glories, reminding him that his mother would never again seize them.

"Mother."

She looked up at him from her parchment, still holding her quill. "Eddard."

"Yes mother, your one and only, unless you take another suitor to bed."

"You're supposed to be with Maester Josquira."

"Yes mother, about that." He walked forward to the seat opposite the desk where his mother sat. "Believe it or not, I have better things to do then read the words of long dead men."

His mother said nothing. After giving hm a look, she just returned to scribbling on her parchment as she always did.

"Are you even listening to me?" Eddard asked.

"No, not really." She continued to scribble.

"Are you not interested in what your son might have to say?"

"From what you've said already? No." She continued to write.

"Mother, I am the prince, the future king, and-"

"And right now, you are worthy of neither of those titles." She put her quill down and picked up a seal, bearing the sign of the three-headed dragon. She pressed it down, and began to fold the parchment up. Eddard, for his part, remained seated in his chair, his hands gripping the sides.

_How dare you._

He was the Son of the Dragon and the Wolf. He was the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms. He carried the blood of Targaryen and Stark in his veins, of the far North, and Valyria of old. Seven years ago he had been brought into this world, and for those seven, he had constantly stood in the shadow of a woman who couldn't comprehend that her own reign was overshadowed by the better men that had come before her. Overshadowed even by the one who had bedded her. He cleared his throat, ready to remind her of that.

"Before you say anything," his mother said as she finished folding the parchment, "make sure it's something worth saying."

"I have," Eddard said.

"Oh?" His mother put the parchment aside, joining a pile of over ten that had accumulated on the corner of her desk. "Very well. Impart your wisdom. After all, you believe yourself above the lessons of wiser men than either of us, so I assume that your own wisdom has long eclipsed them."

Eddard cleared his throat before meeting his mother's eyes. His brown could not compete with her violet, but he at least had the benefit of youth, and the ice and fire that course through his veins. "Has it occurred to you," he began slowly, "that you're wasting my talents? That you're having me study under an old man wearing a chain when my time could be spent on other pursuits?"

His mother leant back in her chair. "What other pursuits?"

"Well, the ways of the sword for one thing. The rearing of dragons for another."

"Hmm."

Sensing that his mother was warming to his reasoning, Eddard pressed on. "Whatever you've become mother, at least some people remember you as a saviour, before you locked yourself away in this tower, and when not doing that, sitting on a throne made for a conqueror listening to smallfolk whining about everything from rain to the mud they crawl in. I believe that if my time was better spent on activities befitting a prince, the Seven Kingdoms would be all the better for it."

"Indeed?" she asked.

"Indeed."

"I see," his mother said. She was smiling, but there was no mirth in her eyes, only sadness. "Am I such a failure then?"

"I would not go that far mother, but-"

"Oh, I am," she said. "Because when I held you in my arms all those years ago, I dared to hope that I could bring something into the world that would make it richer."

"Excuse me?" Eddard hissed.

His mother picked up one of the parchments. "This is a missive to Storm's End, to Gendry Baratheon. It is a pledge of support to help him deal with the uprising launched by House Estermont." She picked up another. "This is a letter to Lady Stark of Winterfell, informing her that I cannot send any more supplies to deal with the famine in the North, lest I condemn the people of the Crownlands to starve in turn." She picked up a third. "This is to Yara Greyjoy, reminding her that the Old Way will no longer be tolerated, and I can only turn a blind eye for so long." A fourth. "This is to House Blackmont of Dorne, informing them that I will not recognise their claim to the throne of Sunspear." A fifth. "And this is a letter to Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock, asking him for advice on all these other letters." She put it down. "Shall I go on?"

"If you feel inclined to show how cowardly you are in that you rely on other people to fight your wars for you, then so be it."

She just sat there. Daenerys Targaryen, the Dragon Queen, rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and bearer of more titles than he could remember. She was always sitting somewhere, except on a dragon where she was meant to be.

"You know," she murmured, "it's in these moments when I see not your father in you, but my brother."

"Viserys?"

"Your uncle, yes. Did I tell you how he met his end?"

"Many times mother, when you deemed it fit to give me nightmares about liquid gold being poured on my head."

"Then as someone who fears being executed in such a matter, you might better understand why I don't fly out to reduce my people to ashes."

"Says the person who did that before. I understand House Tarly still hates you for that."

She didn't say anything.

"And that's also coming from the person who's never even held a sword."

"No." She picked up her quill. "I wield this instead."

"Are you going to give me some platitude about the quill being mightier than the sword mother?"

"No. But I will remind you that it is through the quill that swords are directed. Sometimes to our enemies, and a lot of the time, away from us."

"And when you turned back the Army of the Dead, was it the quill that felled the Night King? When you returned to this place, carrying me inside your belly, was it by the quill that the false queen was usurped?"

"No," Daenerys said. "But it's from the quill that I no longer have to do such things."

"Then if your quill is so mighty, why not teach me to write?"

"Because even as I struggle to refill the crown's coffers, I'm paying Maester Josquira a good deal of silver to do such things." She got to her feet to pour herself some wine. "While you learn to read, I continue to write, so that you may write one day in turn."

"What if I have no interest in writing?"

"Then you will be a poor king," his mother said. She poured the wine and returned to her desk. "Poorer than my father, and poorer than the man who usurped him." She took a sip.

"Poorer than my father as well?" Eddard asked. "Poorer than his father?"

Daenerys didn't say anything. She just took another sip.

"I hear stories you know," Eddard said. "Claims that my father carried the blood of a Targaryen within him. That his claim to the throne was stronger than yours."

His mother put the wine aside and picked up another piece of parchment.

"I understand that you named me after his supposed father as a way of honouring him," Eddard continued. "Odd, considering that Eddard Stark was among the followers of Robert the Usurper."

Daenerys dabbed her quill in the ink pot.

"Such a shame wasn't it, that he died not long after the Night King. What was it you said mother? No-one lasts forever."

After a moment, his mother put the quill back in the pot. She leant forward, resting her chin on her hands. Just looking at him.

"What else was it you said mother? About breaking the wheel." He gestured around the desk, to all the letters she'd written, and all the parchment she'd yet to touch with her quill. "Seems to me that the wheel's still turning and…what?"

"What?" Daenerys asked.

"You're looking at me funny."

"I am, am I? Well, I suppose it is funny. That even now, I can still see him in you. Somewhere."

Eddard frowned – he wanted to find a retort, but none reached his lips.

"Breaking the wheel," she mused. "A story I told myself, as others told stories to me. I'd hoped…" She took a breath. "You are the first Targaryen to bear the name of Eddard, because I want that part of the wheel broken. New road, new wheel, new dynasty."

"And is that a story you're telling me? Or telling yourself?"

"Well that is the question isn't it? When do stories become truth?"

"Why don't you tell me?"

"I won't," Daenerys said. "And do you know why?"

"Please enlighten me mother."

"Because that's an answer I want you to know. It's why I'm having Josquira teach you to read, so that you may not only write, but understand fiction, fact, and the truths that lie within each."

Eddard snorted. "High words mother. But when you bounced me on your lap, when you told me stories of knights and dragons, and great chivalrous deeds, what truth was there in that?"

"Truth that it pays to do what's right, whether one rides the horse or dragon, and whether one brings armour or not." She got to her feet. "If you had any sense of history, you'd understand that stories have a power of their own. Their themes, their ideas…we tell ourselves stories about love, and honour, and chivalry, and the right of succession, because those stories have a truth to them."

"What truth?"

"That they're the ideals that make society work. That they…keep the wheel turning." She walked over to a canterbury, knelt down, and unlocked it. "It appears however, that if you're to be the king your father was, and continue the Targaryen line, you'll need to approach your education in another matter."

"I'm thrilled," Eddard murmured.

His mother got to her feet again, carrying a thick book in her hands. "Here," she said. "A story I want you to read."

Eddard's eyes widened. "This thing must be thousands of pages."

"Nearly seven-thousand actually," she said. "Technically it's a series of seven books combined into the one volume. And the one you're carrying is one of only two copies in existence."

"Where's the other one?"

"In the Citadel, where little boys who want to play with swords can't cut it up." She paused. "Turn it over Eddard."

He did, seeing the title – _Fire and Ice: An Account of the Game of Thrones, the War of the Five Kings, and the Long Night_. He looked up at her.

"Read it," she said.

"But it's seven-thousand words."

"Didn't say how quickly you had to read it, I just said read it. Do that, keep up with your studies, and I might let you hold a sword someday."

"I have the blood of the Dragon and the Wolf. I have the right to wield a sword and-"

"Blood right means nothing," Daenerys said. "That's a truth of the world – the Dragon, the Stag, and the Lion sat on the Iron Throne, before the Dragon returned."

"You just said line of succession works."

"It works, when the Seven Kingdoms believe it works. And if you don't become a better man within the next decade, they'll cease to believe it works and look for someone better."

Eddard tried to smile, though couldn't muster it, his mother's words cutting deep – "think you'll be around longer than that mother."

"I would hope so. But to repeat another truth from a story I have not forgotten, nothing lasts forever."

Silence fell between the queen and the prince. It was broken only by the sound of the Dragon Queen returning to her desk, tapping her quill on the ink pot, and beginning to write again.

"Now run along," she said eventually. "And sword or no sword, do take care of the book. For my sake, if not yours."

Eddard got to his feet. "I…yes, mother. Of course."

She didn't say anything. She didn't even look up at him. She just kept writing. Always with the writing. Frowning, he opened the book (not an easy feat to do given its size) and glanced at its first line – _The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer._

It sounded ridiculous.

But he'd give it a read.

* * *

_A/N_

_Not too long ago (as of the time of posting this), I came across an interview with the showrunners done at around the time of season 3, where one of them said (paraphrased) "themes are for eighth grade book reports." The line was off-hand, but it did get me thinking. I will say that I don't agree with this idea at all - I like to refer to theme in a story as being akin to icing on a cake. Theme by itself is never enough to carry a story by itself, but if the story is solid, a theme will certainly elevate it._

_Of course, that's admittedly only tangentally related to what I actually wrote, but it's the catalyst regardless. And I may as well address that this will be one of the last, if not the _Game of Thrones _oneshots I can write without having to confine to the ending of the series, since I won't be able to claim ignorance much longer, what with the final season airing. So if a few weeks from now, people are going on about how "this doesn't happen!," now you know the reason why._


End file.
